Braless in Wonderland

Acknowledgments

Stop

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

This book couldn't have been written without the help and support of many people. A huge thank you goes to my talented editor, Mark McVeigh, for his expertise, dedication, and insights into this book, and to his lovely assistant, Elece Blumberg. Many thanks to everyone at Dutton Children's Books.

I'm deeply grateful to my agent extraordinaire, Steven Chudney, for believing in me and for guiding the way. You're the best.

If not for Joyce Sweeney, I'd still have a pile of unfinished manuscripts. Thank you, Joyce, for inviting me into your world and for being a wonderful teacher, adviser, mentor, and friend.

I'd be lost without my Friday critique group and their sharp insights, friendship, and, on occasion, psychotherapy: Janeen Mason, Danielle Joseph, Linda Rodriguez-Bernfeld, Melody Samuelson, Gloria Rothstein, Adrienne Sylver, and Kathy Macdonald. Many thanks to Dorian Cirrone for her generosity and smart advice, to Alex Flinn for a great critique, and to Norma Davidson, for cheering me on week after week.

Big hugs go to close friend and TV/model agent Allee “Allee Cat” Newhoff, for updating me on industry changes, gossip, answering my hundreds of e-mails, and for just being an awesome human being. Thanks also to Irene Marie and Peggi McKinley, for bringing me into your agencies. You both showed me how to be strong. To Lydia Prio-Touzet, thanks for making me laugh harder than anyone else in the business and for hiring me to work in your division because you liked my jewelry. To stylist Bryn Nordenson, thanks for driving through a life-threatening tropical storm to chat with me and for proofing my on-set scenes. Danke to Brigitte Heininger for answering my German questions. A fond and heartfelt thanks to all the Miami agents, bookers, casting directors, photographers, models, and actors who were part of my life when I was in the biz, in particular: Tina Carlini Toto, Jason Christenson, Raoul Ferrer, Linda Ginsburg, Sharon Martin, Ada Delgado, Debbie Cozzo, Judy Lane, Eleanor Stinson, and Richard Fast.

Thanks to University of Miami professors Paul Nagel, Paul Lazarus, George Capewell, and the late Bill Cosford for teaching me how to tell a story. Also to my high school teachers Carol Amster Franco and Jill Hilliard.

Thank you to my parents, Sara and Donald Reed, for giving me confidence, and Dad, for your advice to “let the competition worry about the competition.” Many thanks to Danny and Joyce Reed, David Reed, Anita and Donald Fischer, Karen and Paul Margolies, and to all my family and friends who cheer me on.

And lastly, thanks to my husband, Eric, and to the number one greatest kids in the world, Louis and Sam. You light up every day with joy.

If you're reading this
and expecting a tale of some top model who wins the heart of a rock star, adopts a third world baby, launches her own clothing line, winds up on the cover of
Us Weekly
's Who's Hot issue, and gets her own reality show (or at least, her own
E! True Hollywood Story
), then I better warn you…. That's not exactly what happened to me.

Okay, yes, I
was
the It Model on South Beach for about a minute. But if you want to know the truth, I'm not even that hot, really. I look amazing in photos, but the astonishing fact is, I'm not exactly a goddess in person with my thin lips and ordinary nose. Although I do have great teeth and shiny, swingy brown hair. I didn't say I was a bow-wow. But I'm definitely more of the cute-and-sweet-but-not-a-threat kind than the so-smokin'-you-better-stay-away-from-my-boyfriend kind.

So it would blow your mind if you saw the pictures in my portfolio. Who knew that I, Allee Rosen, random citizen of Cape Comet, Florida, high school senior and Wal-Mart employee of the month, could photograph so well? Not me. And I never,
ever
wanted to be a model, that's for sure. I just kinda fell into it, like Alice down the rabbit hole.

And now here I am, getting out of Wonderland, cruising down Fifth Street with the top down in my old red Beetle convertible. Three months ago, I would have been driving past RVs full of models and photography production teams. Or I might have been in one of those RVs, booked for a job. But now modeling season is over and there isn't an RV in sight. Like me, most people in the industry are headed somewhere else, moving on.

A banner-toting plane flies above, reading
DJ GALAXAFUNK TONIGHT AT MANSION
. A bus passes me with the sign
TOO JAYS. WE BRAKE FOR PASTRAMI ON RYE
. I'm leaving a city of blurred lines between old and new, where people and buildings reinvent themselves but stay the same, where work is fun and fun is work.

I pick up speed going under the
MACARTHUR CAUSEWAY
sign, getting to my favorite part of the drive. To my right, I can see sailboats and yachts sailing around Star Island, and to my left, cruise ships as big as skyscrapers float in the bay. I wish I could stay in Miami Beach and soak up this view forever, but I've gotta keep moving, right past this exit sign for
BISCAYNE BOULEVARD
.

I'm bummed to leave, even though there were times it was rough being here. Especially at first, when Brynn was so hard on me. I wonder if I'll ever see her again, and if she'll ever get help. I have a feeling I'll see Summer again, though, on the big screen. As for Claudette, she'll keep in touch while she travels the world, living her adventure.

And Miguel. Just thinking about that funny, sweet little guy makes me smile. He brought out a side of me I didn't even know was there. He's the friend I'll miss the most.

The exit signs are just up ahead, splitting the road into different directions. 836
WEST AIRPORT
takes me away and I-95
NORTH
keeps me back home.

I know where I'm going now. After weighing all the pros and cons, I'm not torn about which direction to take anymore. Okay, maybe, a little. But I know I'm doing what's right for me. This morning, I sent the letter, so now my decision is official.

It was a hard decision to make and not everyone likes my choice, but I've learned that I'm the only one who has to like my choices, because I'm the only one who has to live with them. And that's one thing modeling has taught me.

Although back when I started, I didn't think modeling had anything to teach me. In fact, the day the flyer about the model search was floating around school, causing a big squeal-a-baloo with all the Trendy Wendies, I was too busy stealing toilet paper to even notice.

I was on my knees in the handicapped stall (they always have extra TP in there), trying to squish one last roll into my backpack. My backpack was pretty big, so I could fit a lot in if I carried my books. Some girls were primping in front of the mirror, looking at me like I was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, but I stayed focused on my mission until I heard, “What are you doing?”

It was Hillary High Beams. In a halter top with no bra. Her chest was like a man's crotch in spandex bike shorts. You knew you should look away, but it was hard not to be curious. “Allee, do you have a problem or something, 'cause I have Tums in my purse if you need it.”

I looked up at her, forcing my eyes to stay on her face. “Hillary, if you keep Tums in your purse, aren't you the one with the problem?”

“No,” she said, all defensive. “I'm just kidding. Can't you take a joke?”

“Sorry,” I said, and plunked my backpack on the sink counter, struggling with the zipper. “I'm a little stressed out right now. This zipper won't close.”

She tried to peek inside my backpack. “What
are
you doing with all that toilet paper anyway?”

“Using it for an art project I have to finish next period. It's due today. We're supposed to use a household item.”

“So…you don't have toilet paper at home?”

I gave her my best deadpan. “No. We don't.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

Omigod, now who couldn't take a joke? “Yeah, we do, but not enough, and I didn't have time to buy more.” I didn't feel like explaining that my four-year-old brother, Robby, had decided that all that extra Charmin I'd brought back from my late shift at Wal-Mart belonged in the bathtub with him. He was such a pain, but so cute.

“You should smile more, Allee. It changes your whole face, you know? You're always so, like, Queen Serious.”

Was I smiling? I hadn't realized it. And so what if I was Queen Serious lately? You try smiling when your college plans have been ripped apart like a movie ticket. I should have said, “At least people look at my face, Hill-o-boobs!” That's what I should have said. Instead I said, “Oh. Good to know.”

I really had to work on being more assertive.

“So, why'd you come to school yesterday?” she asked. “Everybody knows you were here. Did you forget it was Senior Skip Day or what?”

Why did she care? It's not like we ran in the same circles. Although I didn't really run in any circles. “I had a Spanish test review.”

“That is so lame. Where's your senioritis? You should be partying.” She wagged an acrylic-nailed finger at me. “Even a Jane Brain like you needs to chill once in a while.”

Now it was my turn to get defensive. “I chill once in a while.” It just depended on what you meant by chill. Hillary chilled by guzzling beer bongs and freak dancing with football players, whereas my fave mode of chilling involved MTV2, a Jane Austen novel, and Oreos dipped in milk. I kinda chilled by myself. Although she would have been shocked to know that I did shed my punk and alternative tunes and put on some Beyoncé for a little hip-hop dancing action sometimes. Not that I'd ever danced in public. I didn't fly my freak flag out in the open. Maybe because my sister, Sabrina, once caught me in our room and said Shakira is wrong, my hips do lie, 'cause they look like they're dodging bullets, not dancing.

I didn't feel much like dancing these days, though, not since my dream of going to Yale had crumbled like a milk-soaked Oreo. See, my dad dropped a nuke on me, right after Yale's early-acceptance packet came in the mail. It turned out his plan to “increase” my college fund hadn't turned out the way it was supposed to. As soon as he said, “You know, sweetheart, investments aren't always a sure thing,” I knew. And I was devastated. How could my dad screw up so royally?

I'd always wanted to go there, ever since Mrs. Anderson, my ninth-grade English teacher, planted that seed of ambition in me. She'd gone to Yale and was always talking about how much it changed her life, how amazing her professors were, how she still kept in touch with all her Yale friends. Mrs. Anderson told me I could go there too, if I wanted. I just had to keep my eye on the prize.

And I got in. The thing is, I'm not spooky brilliant like Sanjay Singh, who has a photographic memory and thinks calculus is easy. I mean, sure, I was in AP classes and gifted and all that stuff, but I knew the score. I got in because I worked my butt off, not because I was some Einstein.

But all that work was for nothing now. I couldn't even get financial aid. If the world were fair, aerospace engineers like my dad would make millions, but in reality-ville, my parents made just enough so that I didn't qualify for aid, but not enough to be able to pay for a private college. So, according to Yale, we were too rich to need financial help. Never mind that we were too poor to pay full tuition. I could have gotten a loan, but then I'd have a mountain of debt to pay off for the next thirty years, and what if I couldn't pay it back? There was some state scholarship money I'd won, and I still had money left in my college fund, just not
quite
enough. My $6.67 an hour at Wal-Mart wasn't exactly piling up at the bank, either.

So that was it. Yale wasn't in the cards. I had to accept it.

Except I couldn't. Call it denial if you want, but I still had this crazy hope there was a way to get there. I just needed to figure out how.

“Well, you missed an awesome party at the beach yesterday,” Hillary said.

“Yeah! It rocked!” some girl shouted from inside a stall.

“I know.” I sighed. “I heard all about it.” From Sabrina, the only freshman invited to Senior Skip Day, thanks to a bunch of drooling senior guys.

There! Zipper closed. Mission accomplished. I threw on my super-bulky backpack and headed out of the bathroom, joining the flow of kids in the hallway. Mysteriously, Hillary followed me. “Have you seen Sabrina anywhere?” she asked.

“No.” Everybody was always looking for The Fluff. That's what I secretly called her in my mind because she was your basic cloud of cotton candy: all fluff, no stuff. I was more like a hundred percent whole wheat, solid and full of fiber. How we both sprang from our parents' loins was one of the great unexplained wonders of the world. “Have you checked the breezeway?”

“Uh-uh. I was just wondering, um, is she going to the model search this Saturday? Do you know if she heard about it?”

“What model search?”

“This one.” She whipped out a flyer from her jeans pocket and unfolded it in front of my face.
Attention all beautiful people! Do you have what it takes to be a fashion model? International Scouting Associates, America's most successful modeling scouts, are coming to your area looking for new, fresh faces. We have placed models with the world's most exclusive agencies, such as Elite and Ford. Come to Cocoa Square Mall this Saturday, January 5, at ten a.m. Bring a full-face photo and full-body photo and get a free beauty evaluation. Come and get discovered!

A beauty evaluation? Excuse me. I felt barf rising. “No, I haven't heard her say anything about this.”

“You're sure?” Jake and Scott slinked by, ogling Hillary's high beams. Gross. Those two were partners in slime. They couldn't even pass the Georgia O'Keeffe poster in the art room without making a dirty joke. I mean, maybe her flowers
did
look like a certain part of the female anatomy, but grow up, ya pervs. “Sabrina doesn't know
anything
about the model search?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. If she's going, I would've heard about it by now. That's weird, though, 'cause she's always talking about wanting to be a model. But no, she hasn't said anything to me.”

She looked relieved. I guess she was worried my sister would steal her glory. I understood why she was threatened. Most girls were, with The Fluff's violet blue eyes and compact perfect body. Even I would be lying if I said I'd never felt an occasional twinge of jealousy. I'd just learned to blow it off and remember that I had better hair.

Because here was the cold truth about two sisters at the same school: one of them was always prettier. And people had a way of reminding you who's who. Kinda like right now.

“Um, Allee, could you do me a favor?” she asked.

“Sure.” So
that's
why she was following me. She probably wanted my review notes from Spanish. Why should I do her a favor when I barely knew her? Girls like her were just so used to everyone doing them favors. They expected it. It's how they got through life.

She waved the flyer around. “About the model search, could you just forget to mention it to Sabrina? Like, don't tell her at all, okay?” She glanced behind me at my backpack. “Uh-oh, it's coming open.”

“What's coming open?”

“The zipper. Wait, I can fix it.” Now she was fumbling with my backpack.

“Don't! They'll all—”

Fall out. And they did, one after the other, unraveling, streaming down the arts wing, carpeting the hallway. This was a disaster. How was I going to finish my project now? Some comedian shouted, “Hey, look, you're on a roll!” Then people started tossing pieces in the air, throwing entire rolls around like a game of hot potato. Hillary joined them. They all seemed so relaxed, so happy. I was the only one not smiling or laughing. I wished I could, I really did. But I didn't have it in me. None of this was funny to me.

My life was unraveling, just like this toilet paper.

Smack.
A roll hit me square in the forehead. It got me so irritated I picked the roll up off the floor and chucked it. It hit Hillary. Right in the butt. She threw it back, but I caught it, just as a stray piece floated down and landed on my head, covering my face.

Which is why I didn't see the next roll coming. It got me good. Right in the ear.

And then a weird thing happened, even weirder than seeing the hallway carpeted in toilet paper. This time, instead of getting irritated, I got…the giggles. Waves and waves of them. The next thing I knew, I was cracking up, throwing the stuff around with the others. Forget my project. So what if I was about to get the first F of my life? Hilarious! Maybe this was senioritis. Maybe I'd finally caught it from everybody else.

All I knew was, I hadn't laughed like this in a long time.

And it felt good.